


Of Mischief and Monsters

by ScaryScarecrows



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Friendship is Magic, Gen, LITERALLY, Loki should probably not do this, Norse Mythology related, but it used to be, deagement, not Marvel Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7888804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the God of Mischief meets a monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began, once upon a time, as a Marvel fic.
> 
> But I am a nerd, and my mythology side fought hard, and what little Marvel there was skipped off into the sunset and though it isn't quite compliant with the myths, it's closer. Little Lord of the Rings-y, really.
> 
> One day, it shall be a giant novel, but right now it's a baby (I'm converting all the other Marvel fics, which isn't hard). Heavily inspired by this thing of beauty called 'Fall of Gods'-this opening piece is set to the song 'Wolf's Lair' from the soundtrack. You can hear a bit of it at the end of the teaser song on YouTube (just search 'Fall of Gods'). The picture is also from that book.

 

A little ways from Asgard sits an island.

            It is not a true island, more of a rock jutting from the grey seas, but island is the nicer term. Whatever it may be, it is small and surprisingly difficult to reach. Many have tried and failed, and those who have made it have not returned.

            The redhead does not care for the others. He cares for himself, and for satisfying his own curiosity. Well, that and winning his little wager, but that is secondary.

            The little boat bobs up and down in the choppy sea and the redhead murmurs a few words. It calms itself, though the sea around it does not, and before too much time has passed, he has arrived at the rock.

            There are no birds on the rock, nor any other sign of life. He ties the boat to the remains of a small dock, long since battered away by the waves, and picks his way up a craggy path leading towards the center of the rock.

            It begins to rain.

            The path ends abruptly at the base of a small cliff and the redhead sighs, tilts his head back, and comes to the unhappy realization that he will have to scale it to reach his destination. How very irritating.

            Soft, long-fingered hands catch hold of natural grips in the stone and with a grunt he pulls himself off the ground, internally cursing the need for this to become a _physical activity_. Luckily for him, he does not have far to climb and eventually he heaves himself onto flat ground once more, fingers red and slightly sore from clutching at the rock.

            The path is overgrown here, retaken by what little plant life manages to survive, and he wonders how long it will take to get the nettles out of his cloak upon his return home.

            No matter-the path stops at a small cave, just a tad too short for him to enter without ducking his head. The rain is steadily growing stronger and he cups his palm, flicks a finger in _just_ the right way, and smirks to himself when a small green flame leaps from his skin. It does not burn, but the light it grants is surprisingly bright.

            The cave is silent. It smells of rock, in the beginning, of rock and the sea, and then, as he goes further in, it smells of blood and death and despair and, underneath all of that, it smells of magic. But that smell is faint, and untrained noses will likely miss it altogether. Untrained noses miss much, he finds.

            He rounds a curve and feels something slick and hard under his foot-a misplaced pebble, perhaps? No, too large for a pebble. He ponders the riddle for a moment or two before giving up and looking down.

            Under his foot lies a bone, smooth and off-white, with no trace of meat on it. The bone, in and of itself, is not so interesting. What _is_ interesting is the fact that it's maybe half of a femur bone, broken in a very awkward spot. He picks it up, looks closer, and sees that it isn't really broken, exactly, as much as it's _bitten_.

 _Now_ his ears catch something breathing in the darkness-the shallow, measured breaths of a predator waiting to strike. He wills the flame in his hand to grow and sees, just outside its reach, a heavy chain-and a flash of grey fur that scurries back into the shadows.

            "I know you're here, Old One." he says quietly. "I mean you no harm."

            **"Why have you come."**

He cannot repress the shiver that runs down his spine. That voice is old, the words barely understandable in the growl. But the chain does not reach here, and it is not yet so weak that it will break.

            He hopes.

            "They told me I might find a monster."

            What he thinks might be a laugh comes from the far reaches of the cavern.

            **"You gaze upon it, Godling."**

"I see no monster," he says, the flame growing a little more. "only a mangy wolf."

            And barely even that-it hides in what little blackness remains to it. But he can see enough to see why it was once one of Odin's most feared soldiers, and he does not doubt that it will rip him apart if he takes one more step.

            It growls at him, the sound setting his teeth on edge, and moves a bit, chain clanking against the ground.

            **"Leave, Godling. Leave and let me be."**

"I am no God."

            **"You reek of Asgard."** it snaps. **"Now get out, unless you wish to be a meal."**

The others were meals, he suspects, if the bitten bones on the floor are any indication. But he is not like the others.

            "The chain is weak, Old One." He shrinks the flame a little. "The spells on it grow older by the day."

            **"And the day will come that I break it."**

            "Ah, but that day is far off."

            **"I can wait."**

"I'll make you a bargain." He shrinks the flame as low as it will go without costing him his vision. "I will free you, and you will come back with me."

            It laughs again and he hears it begin to walk, nails scraping gently against the stone floor.

            **"Tis a foolish bargain, child."**

"I've made worse and come out just fine."

            He takes one more step.

            Nothing happens.

            **"Why."**

"I know why you're here." Another step, no response. "I know you're here from fear, not wrongdoing."

            **"Traitors, all."**

"I know."

            He reaches the chain and bends down to touch it. He's just wrapping his fingers around it when there's hot breath against the back of his neck and he stiffens up, prepares to roll aside.

            **"I will not be tricked again, child."** it growls in his ear. **"If you are lying to me, the last thing you will know is your throat gushing blood."**

He believes it.

            "I am telling you the truth." Something he does more than the others would like to admit, actually. "I swear on my life."

            **"Why, then."**

He turns, the light glancing off massive white teeth, and it shies its head away.

            "Because I never did believe in punishment before the crime." he says lightly. "May I?"

            His fingers reach out towards the heavy iron collar. All is silent, save for that shallow, measured breathing. Then-

            **"You may."**

He lets his fingers fall forward until they brush against smooth metal. Smooth or not, it's nearly grown into the skin. But it's weak, only barely strong enough to hold itself together, and it snaps neatly in two when he lets a few green sparks leap from his fingers and burrow into it.

            He hears it crack, but it doesn't fall. The wolf seems to flicker and then a woman stands before him, clothes hanging off her body and her hair long and unkempt. She reaches up and, with trembling fingers, touches the collar. He is not prepared for her to suddenly grip the edges and pull at it. There's the sound of ripping flesh and the sudden, sharp, scent of blood, and finally the collar falls the ground. He gets a glimpse of raw, oozing flesh and stringy muscles before she flickers again and the wolf stands before him, breathing hard.

            "What is your name."

Something tells him that now is not the time for flamboyance.

            "I am Loki."

            "Very well, Loki." she says, voice hoarse. "If by life or death I can protect you, I will."

            This was not what he had in mind, but he isn't about to complain.

            He nods, pays silent respects to the bitten bones, and wills the flame to grow a little larger.

            "Well, Fenrir?" She looks at him through sunken eyes. "Shall we return to Asgard?"

THE END


	2. A Misty Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this. But today...fuck it. I may as well.

Children like Loki. He makes them laugh, always has a story of either comedy or grand adventure, and he never minds when they run after him, begging for a magic trick.

            Adults, on the other hand, are an entirely different story. On any given day, if one asks around, one will find as many people chuckling and saying he's a good lad, if a little touched in the head, as there are people cursing his name and damning him to the most creative punishment the Gods can think up. (And the Gods, for whatever else they may be, are a creative lot.) And people shuffle between both sides on a fairly regular basis.

            What they can all agree on, however, is that he is never dull.

            And that is why, on this grey day, they have gathered at the docks to watch and wait. He spoke little when he came down from the castle that morning-unusual in itself-but they understand he made a wager. A rather paltry one, at that-two hundred gold coins if he went to the island and spoke to the monster there. But he had to bring back proof of this conversation-a tooth, a scrap of fur, _something_.

            The old grandmothers remember what befell the last batch of fools that journeyed to the island, and they have their doubts that he will return at all. Whispers fly through the group-this was a set-up, he won't go through it, he _will_ go through with it...really, anything's possible. The general consensus, however, is that he'll get his fool self killed.

            The children have more faith. One, a scrappy little thing of six, stands clutching her stuffed rabbit in one chubby hand and disagreeing with anyone who says he won't come back.

            "He _will_." she says, with the arrogance only children can really muster. "He _pwomised._ He has my chawm, he has to come back."

            Her mother tells her to be quiet.

            The sea is silent. The island is too far out to hear screams of death, but sometimes they can hear howling, echoing across the water and forcing its way into their sleeping ears.

            But not today.

            The dock master leans out, wrinkled eyes squinting to try and see through the fog.

            "Ah see somethin'."

            The whispers stop. Everyone leans closer, trying to see what he sees.

            "Wait..."

            A shadow appears in the mist, a massive one that quickly shrinks down to the size of a small rowboat. And, eventually, they see that it _is_ a rowboat-the very same one Loki took out this morning.

            An excited murmur sweeps through the crowd and more than one person loses or gains a bag of coins. The little girl grins and says, "I told you so."

            Her mother clips her ear for talking out of turn.

            Loki looks unharmed, and he is not alone. Sitting in the boat with him is a scraggly, skeletal individual who needs a second glance to determine that it is, in fact, a woman. She is wearing clothes so old and filthy that they might as well be a part of her, and everyone's first thought is that some poor soul washed up on that rock, and it's a miracle she wasn't eaten.

            Loki hauls himself out of the boat and extends his hand. Once the woman is on the dock, he turns to the little girl and kneels down.

            "I believe this belongs to you. Thank you for loaning it to me."

            As if from thin air, he produces a scrap of green sea glass and holds it out. She takes it, ducking her head and giggling, and he stands up and returns to his companion.

            An old grandmother comes forth, a blanket in her hands and words of sympathy on her lips.

            "You poor dear-ah!"

            She draws back, face white. Her son steps up to hold her arm and she whispers, "The eyes...look at the eyes."

            They all look. Behind the long hair and hidden deep in a sunken face sit the brown eyes of a wolf.

            The children are rushed away despite their protests and the blacksmith advances, meaty arms tense at his sides.

            "Are you focken insane?"

            Loki smiles at that.

            "Perhaps."

            The blacksmith growls and reaches out, either to shake him or to snap his neck, and there is a low, audible growl. He looks over. The woman is gone. In her place stands the merest shadow of a wolf, but even like this it is far larger than any wolf has a right to be. And it is looking right at him, lips drawn back in a menacing grimace.

            He drops his hands.

            "It's all right, Fenrir." Loki says smoothly. "He means no harm."

            The growling stops but the wolf does not blink, does not tear its gaze away. Loki lets his hand come to rest on its head, fingers moving gently behind its ears. He is a tall man, taller than most, but the monster's head comes easily halfway up his ribcage.

            "She won't hurt you, you have my word. They asked for proof, and I brought it."

            He starts forward and the crowd parts before him. Nobody speaks and soon enough, he is swallowed once again by the mist.

THE END


	3. Traveler

The woods smell of pine smoke and cooking meat and wet cloth.

It is a calm day, with a gentle breeze and no sign of rain. The sun is shining, and Miri is hoping this foretells a good fishing trip.

“A nice afternoon, isn’t it?”

Miri jumps and promptly feels silly for doing so. All the same, it isn’t often that people sneak up on him.

The one responsible for this chuckles and settles down on the other side of the fire, thin hands snaking out from under his grey cloak to rub themselves over the fire.

“Little chilly, though.”

“Who are you.”

“Nothing but a weary traveler, with many steps to take before I reach my destination.” The fingers make a dismissive gesture. “What is your name, stranger?”

“You never gave me yours.”

“You never asked.”

But he…had…

The traveler chuckles again and passes his finger through the fire. Miri is about to panic-he is dealing with a madman, clearly, sane people do not _touch_ the fire-when he sees that nothing happened. The skin isn’t even red.

He is dealing with someone…unusual, then. Perhaps politeness is the best route, his best chance to survive.

He gestures to the meat roasting over the flames.

“Would you care for some? It won’t be done for some time, but…”

“No, thank you.” The traveler draws his hands back inside his cloak. “Though your offer is much appreciated, Miri, son of Vali.”

“You know my name.”

“I know many things.” A wry grin quirks up the side of his mouth and he shakes the hood from his head. He is young in face, but his eyes…his eyes do not look human. The color’s all wrong.

Miri vows to tread very carefully. At best, he is dealing with an Elf. At worst…

The smile fades from the traveler’s face and he twists his head, those inhuman eyes seeming to look straight into Miri’s soul.

“What I wish to know, however, is this.” he says softly. Between them, the fire crackles and shifts, images racing through the flames in the blink of an eye-a serpent, a wolf, a fortress. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Aye.” He doesn’t like where this is going. In the flames, a burning serpent uncoils and postures, jaws unhinged, before diving into the coals.

The traveler studies him for another moment, unblinking and unsmiling.

“Should an old man find you, asking if you have seen me, say nothing.”

“How will I know?”

The smile returns and the fire snaps, the sound more animal than fire. Miri glances at it in time to see a wolf vanish into the embers.

“You will know him. Make no mistake. Do as I ask, and you will be rewarded when the time comes.”

This is no Elf. One of the Aesir, it must be.

“My Lord.” He bows his head. “O-of course.”

The traveler reaches through the flames and cups Miri’s chin, lifts his head. His fingers feel like ice.

“I never forget a kindness.” he says, and his voice is a mother’s unwavering promise that all will be right with the world. “Thank you, Miri, son of Vali.”

He cannot speak. The icy fingers release him as the traveler stands and replaces his hood. Miri blinks, and he is gone.

THE END


	4. Jormungandr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the anglicized spelling, 'tis but an early draft and not everything's straightened out. Magic Mental Dream Casting for him: Anthony Carrigan.
> 
> Mythologically speaking, Jormy really is Fenrir's little brother. He's not as massive here as usual, because that's a game-breaker and no fun, but he is large-nearing eighty feet in length. By the end of the book, he'll be nearing two hundred. Recommended listening: Adrian von Ziegler's 'Till Valholl'.

The sea is choppy today. It smashes against the rock with the fervor of a last stand and Loki can smell the dead things its churning has driven to the surface.

“Why are we here.”

“There is someone you should meet.”

“A teacher?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“My younger brother.” She sniffs the air. “Jǫrmungandr.”

Jormungandr. Mortal men call him the World Serpent, claim he is large enough to encircle Midgard by grasping his tail in his jaws. Loki has heard the stories, about how even the seaside elves retreat from the shores when he comes, but he has never so much as caught a glimpse.

Wait.

“Younger brother?”

Fenrir’s ears flick towards the waves.

“There.”

 _Something_ splits the ocean in two in the distance, sending a small tidal wave crashing against the cliff high enough to spray them both with particularly ambitious droplets. Humps-Loki counts two, no, three of them-appear in the water, undulating towards them. As they advance, he can see a little better-they are scaled, and a greeny-grey that would hardly be visible under the waves.

They are also massive, large enough, he thinks for Fenrir and himself to stand side-by-side with room to spare.

“Fen-”

The humps sink into the water for one, two, three seconds, and then the head bursts out, covered with dripping seaweed and clutching what looks to be a small whale in its jaws. The snake’s eye focuses on them briefly before the head jerks back, flinging the whale into the air and unhinging its jaw to swallow it whole.

Loki rather wants to be ill.

He can see the tail flapping against the neck as it goes down, and then it is gone and the giant eye is gazing at them again, a forked tongue that looks nearly as big as he is flicking in and out.

Fenrir snorts.

“You are frightening the boy, little brother. Come here.”

_Little-_

The head rises above them, water streaming onto the rocks, and Loki blinks, and the serpent is gone. In its place is a man.

The man is not much better-the eyes, like Fenrir’s, remain unchanged and when he walks forward, the movements are too smooth and reptilian to be reassuring.

Fenrir, however, laughs and the woman strides forward, clasps his arm.

“Little brother.”

“In name only, ssssmaller sssissster.” The man grins, wide and snakelike, and plucks a stray piece of seaweed from the top of his bald head. “’Tisss good to ssssee you again.”

“I sometimes wonder about that…Loki, this is my younger brother. Jǫrmungandr, this is Loki. My…protégé, I suppose. Of sorts.”

“It is an honor.”

The snake-man tilts his head before barking out a laugh.

“Asssssgardian! I’d know the accent anywhere.” Wet, textureless fingers lash out and tip his head to the left, unblinking eyes flicking up and down his throat. “But not one of them…I ssssee.”

See what?

Jormungandr’s tongue, some horrible cross between a man’s and a snake’s-forked and too long to be human, but too thick and broad to be serpent-dances inches from his jugular.

“I thank you, mock-Assssgardian, for my ssssisster.”

“You are most welcome.” Please let go, please let go… “That, too, was an honor.”

He is released as Jormungandr…coils…backwards, muscles rippling under his skin. In the churning waters below, a piece of driftwood shatters against the rocks.

“Why so far Wessst? We both know you loathe the humidity.”

“Something is moving, little brother. Nidhogg is stirring.”

“I thought I felt the quakessss.” Jormungandr eyes the water, swaying to an unheard rhythm. “When the time comes, I will be there.”

Then he steps off the cliff. A second later, the serpent vanishes beneath the waves.

“Fenrir?”

The wolf shakes herself, sending water droplets every which way.

“Always has to have the last word, my younger brother,” she says, turning from the precipice. “Come along.”

“No more relatives for me to meet?”

“No.”

THE END


	5. The Perils of Illness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki has to keep a baseline control of his magic, but he’s been doing it for long enough that to him, it’s like tying a shoe or riding a bike-he doesn’t have to think about it. When he’s sick, on the other hand…maybe run.  
> This may or may not go in the book, I don’t know. I wrote it for character study more than anything, and because…well…the mental image if Tiny Loki riding Fenrir was precious to me, okay.

 Fenrir eyes the fleeing maid with no small disdain. Really. It isn’t as though the boy is stricken with some form of the plague. It is a cold. Not even a deadly cold-a mild, one-week bout of a stuffed-up nose and a sore throat and mild aches. Besides, he had it for two days before showing symptoms. She tried to tell him. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You’re paranoid,’ he said.

Who’s laughing now?

She’s on her way to get a good I-Told-You-So in, because it’s the least he deserves. Perhaps next time he’ll think twice before ignoring her.

The hallway outside his room smells strongly of moldy cinnamon-the same way he’s smelled since last week. The moldy undertone is fading, however, so at least it doesn’t appear to be morphing into something…unpleasant.

She noses his door open. The room is dark, the blinds closed and the fire low. Loki himself is lying in bed, looking quite the pitiful figure. The blankets are rumpled, his nightshirt is sticky with sweat, and his hair is clumped together.

“You look terrible,” she says, drawing nearer and nudging a dangling hand back onto the bed. He groans.

“I’m dying.”

“Don’t be a goose.”

“I can feel Death’s icy fingers closing around my heart.”

“Sit up, you smell like a pigsty.”

“Bury me…facing the east…so that I may…greet the dawn, as was my wont in life…”

Fenrir snorts, pads over to the drapes and pulls one open. A beam of early-morning sunshine pierces the room and Loki gasps, pulls a pillow over his face.

“Here is the dawn, pup. Now up.”

He presses the pillow tighter against his face for a few seconds before flinging it aside and fumbling for a handkerchief.

“I can’t breathe.”

“A hot bath will fix that. Do not make me pull you out of bed.”

He sits up and blows his nose before slumping forward, hair bumping stiffly against his face.

“This is terrible.”

“You had ample warning,” she says smugly. “Consider that next time. Now up.”

He makes a face but slithers out of bed, fingers grasping for his dressing-gown. He really does look awful, to be fair. She feels slightly sorry for him. Slightly.

_“Ahh-choo!”_

The sneeze sets sparks flickering at his fingertips, glittering green like tiny fireworks. A second later he looks at her, squints, and goes paler than ever.

That does not bode well.

“My sincerest apologies.”

“What have you done to me.”

“In my defense, it was an accident.”

**“Loki.”**

He nods towards the mirror sitting above his fireplace. She turns, expecting any number of humiliations, and feels her ears and tail go limp in defeat.

She is. Pink. Not even a light pink that could be mistaken for half-washed-out blood, oh no. She is now a garish fuchsia from nose to tail.

“What is this.”

“I don’t want.” He swallows, sways and sits back on the bed. “To attempt to repair you. I don’t…when I am unwell, my magic is finicky at best and an attempt to restore your color may well end in removing your fur.”

She understands the maid’s terror, now. What happened to her, she wonders?

“Go bathe.” She stalks past him and squirms under the bed, where it is dark and she will not be witnessed by chatty individuals. “Perhaps that will perk you up enough to fix this.”

“If it helps, it’s likely to wear off in an hour or two.”

That is not at all reassuring.

She growls at him and folds her paws over her nose. Fuchsia…black would have been acceptable. Even red would have been…tolerable. But this!

The minute-no, the _second_ -that she is back to her normal color, she is leaving the room and steering clear for the next little while.

* * *

She feels that she may be forgiven for not registering, at first, that the little boy poking her shoulder is Loki. He is _tiny_ , scarcely…three feet tall, perhaps? If he doesn’t slouch.

“What now.”

“You’re not pink.” It’s something. The child sniffles and mucus shines against his nose for a second before he wipes it off. “I don’t know what happened.”

She nudges him back out from under the bed and comes out herself, checks the mirror to _ensure_ that she is, in fact, grey.

Well. He _did_ get a growth spurt at some point-he doesn’t even come up to her shoulder, and he’s…round. Round face, round limbs, and a stomach that protrudes like a doll’s.

“What is your age?”

He bites his lip, brow furrowed, and _that_ little tick has stuck, at least.

Dear Norns, she shouldn’t laugh. But. The _sight_ of this little thing…it’s very difficult to believe that two weeks ago he’d been startled and hurled a fireball the size of the chandelier at the offending party.

“Two hundred and…seven, I think.” He twists his left elbow around and prods at it. “I broke my elbow at two hundred and nine…and it didn’t heal properly, so…hngh.” He nods, sneezes-no sparks this time, thankfully-and looks at her with watery, bulbous eyes. “This is terrible.”

“I’m rather amused.”

“You’re a terrible friend.”

She lowers her head and shoves her nose against his chest. The intent is a mild chastisement. The result is a…

Yes. That was. That was a _squeak_. A squeak and an instant attempt to curl into a ball whilst simultaneously flailing at her muzzle.

“Fen, _no._ ”

This is one of the best days in her (admittedly long) lifetime.

“Are you ticklish as an adult? Did you gain the skills to hide your reactions? Should this be investigated?”

“I don’t know-no. No! I am not ticklish.” He nods, hair flopping into his eyes. “I do not need to investigate, I am sure.”

“You’re the one insisting that you must know everything,” she says, giving him another nudge and taking no small glee in the way he scrunches up like a hedgehog. “Or did you forget the incident with the dragon?”*

“That was not my fault,” the boy says with as much dignity as he can muster. It isn’t much. Fenrir chuckles and he sticks his tongue out at her.

“I told you not to get too close.”

Loki, tellingly, is silent. Fenrir is just about to pluck him up by the back of the shirt (which, upon further inspection, has been tied and knotted so that he doesn’t trip) and put him to bed, when the little brat scurries around her and-

“Get off.”

“I require sustenance.”

**“Now.”**

“I cannot wander about like this. I am vulnerable. There could be _kidnappers._ ”

“They would return you.”

Sticky (sticky…children are perpetually sticky…why) fingers bury themselves in her ruff and knobby knees dig into her ribs.

“To the kitchen, faithful steed!”

“Why are you like this.”

He cackles. Fine. She will indulge the little imp, if only because children are so very fragile and flinging him off as he deserves is likely to cause damage.

But that doesn’t mean she has to like it.

THE END

* ‘I won’t get too close, and it’s sleeping.’ *cut to burning buildings and screaming in the distance*


End file.
